


Salad.

by Thanfiction



Series: Team Free Will Recipe Ficlets [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Recipes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:52:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanfiction/pseuds/Thanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a series of five ficlets where the prompt was to incorporate a relevant recipe in a character glimpse or study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salad.

He hadn’t meant to, but it was the only way he knew how to live; not really living, just  _surviving._ The scholarship hadn’t allowed much for living expenses, and he had turned down a dorm, not knowing just how angry Dad would be or  _what_ exactly might have followed him and wanting to make sure he wasn’t endangering anyone else before he tried living with them.  Wasn’t easy without Dean, though.  He’d never realized how much his brother did for him.  Still, he managed.  Foreclosed houses and ones where the occupants were on vacation, picking the locks on motel rooms, shoplifting when he needed to and grabbing yardwork and odd jobs so he didn’t have to often.  Ramen raw out of the packet, Funyuns, dollar menu, skettios out of the can cold.  

He’d been there a month when his history professor asked him if he’d be willing to prune her orange tree.  Fifty bucks and lunch, and she wasn’t trying to be inappropriate, but she’d heard he took work like that and he was certainly tall enough.  He said yes, of course, and made short work of the job itself.

But then she’d called him inside, and while he’d been rehearsing his speech about thank you ma’am I’m flattered but, he hadn’t been expecting her to sit him down with a pitcher - not even a glass - of fresh creamy-cinnamony horchata and a massive salad on a plate that was really a small platter.  

Spring mix, baby spinach, and raddiccio.  A sliced avacado, lightly grilled.  A generous handful of toasted almonds.  A blood orange, segmented.  Freshly snipped cilantro, thyme, dill and chives, yellow baby pear tomatoes cut in half. Crumbled goat cheese.  Dressed with a drizzle of California extra-virgin unfiltered Arbequina olive oil, a splash of balsamic vinegar, a little salt, and a grind of fresh pepper.  

Nothing fried, nothing beige, nothing artificially flavored or microwaved into oblivion or out of a can.  It was bright, explosive, unexpected in every way, and maybe it was vitamins or something but it was everything he could do not to mow through it like a ghoul through a slaughterhouse.  He knew he was being rude, but she just reached across the table and patted his shoulder and smiled like she knew. 

I have a spare room in the basement.  I have fibromyalgia. It gives me trouble with the things that need manual labor, even just carrying the laundry up the stairs.  I don’t know what your home situation is, Sam, but I’ve been a teacher long enough that…well, you can tell me if you want, but I’m not going to pry.  Help me when I need it, and I won’t expect rent.  No parties, no drugs, but I don’t think you’re the type.  You can use the kitchen and the washer-dryer and eat anything you want from the garden if you maintain it, and I belong to a co-op where you can trade labor for more food.  

He was proud of himself that he agreed like a coherent adult and made it all the way back to where he’d stashed his duffel before he fell to his knees and sobbed against the back of his fists and the aching place that knew the brother who gave him this chance was somewhere in a cheap motel pouring cheaper whiskey over his wounds and down his throat to chase a short skirt and a greasy burger straight to hell.    


End file.
